


Leave the Ruins Where They Lie

by StormLeviosa



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Canon, Archaeology, Bruce Wayne is Not Batman, Child Neglect, Developing Friendships, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Heist, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Stephanie Brown is Spoiler
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:06:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26836423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormLeviosa/pseuds/StormLeviosa
Summary: When Tim finds out his parents' fortune is based in lies, he sets out with Stephanie Brown and Selina Kyle to set things right.An AU in which the Drakes gained their fortune from the sale of stolen artifacts, Bruce hung up the cowl after Jason's death, and Tim is determined to return everything to its rightful place. In a world without Robin, Tim is still a hero at heart.
Comments: 31
Kudos: 95
Collections: Batfam Big Bang 2020, Greatest Batfam Fics to Ever Exist





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go, guys! The beginning of this epic project I've been working on for months now!  
> The Batfam Big Bang has been amazing and I have loved every second of it.  
> Massive thanks to the best betas a writer could ask for and all the amazing artists. I love you guys; you're the absolute best!

Tim first bumps into Steph at the library. He means this quite literally. It's approaching 6pm; the librarians are beginning to kick people out (including the scary red-haired lady in the wheelchair who’d told Tim where to find the books on spectroscopy last month), and he is racing to find the books he needs before they find him. He wouldn't even be here if it weren't for the useless idiots he'd been paired with for the group project who’d decided not to do the work even though it really was so easy, so now Tim has to do the whole of their final sophomore year US History project in like, two days and he is _suffering_. So here is Tim, racing between the shelves, looking for literally anything the library has on Nat Turner before it closes. And here is Stephanie, scrambling to finish just one more page before the librarian catches her.

Their resulting crash shakes the table, knocks a book to the floor, and sends Steph diving for her pen before it skitters under a bookshelf – lost forever to the little gremlins back there who eat dropped stationery. They stare at each other for a long second before they fling themselves apart. Tim mutters a sorry at the floor near Steph's feet and Steph flicks him a dismissive wave as she crams books and papers in her rucksack. He scans the shelves around her frantically, _Nat Turner, Nat Turner_ , his mind repeats on loop and his mouth forms the words even as he hopes he makes no sound.

"You're in the wrong section. US History is that way," she tells him and points further down the aisle. Apparently he wasn't as quiet as he hoped. He thanks her anyway and scurries off in search of books. She crumples up a worksheet by accident and swears under her breath.

Five minutes later, they meet again at the bus stop. Tim tries to ignore her but they are the only two people there besides the drunk homeless guy who's sleeping or possibly dead under the bench. Neither of them wants to check. He keeps glancing at her sideways when she isn't looking and he's pretty sure she's doing the same.

"So," she says and he starts like he wasn't expecting the conversation, except he was, obviously. "Nat Turner, huh?" He flushes. He can feel the heat of his cheeks and knows it isn't the kind of flush you get from the cold or the wind.

"I got saddled with slackers for a group project," he replies. It's the truth because there's no reason to lie, really. She winces in sympathy.

"Ouch." They slip into silence. Tim doesn't mind except it's still another twenty minutes until his bus and that sleeping-possibly-dead guy hasn't moved and this whole situation is so awkward he can’t stand it anymore.

"Did you know there is significant historical evidence to suggest both the Norse and the Welsh "discovered" America before Columbus, building communities and integrating with the native tribes they encountered as far south as Boston and the Midwest _and_ that the stories made it back to their home countries conclusively enough to become part of the literature of Iceland and Wales?"

She blinks at him and he stares at the floor again. It's a very interesting floor, covered in gum and little gritty bits of glass and... other questionable substances.

"Cool," she says, drawing out the double-o, and he can hear the smile in her voice. That's cool. Maybe he's not a freak after all. She shuffles a little closer, checks her watch. "I've got a while before my bus maybe shows up. You got any more fascinating facts in that nerdy little head of yours?" He wants to protest the adjective but he's also really glad that someone is letting him talk so he can't complain. He gives an obligatory "hey" before launching into a monologue about the Norse legal system and the Althing. She keeps smiling.

When he finally stops, gasping slightly for breath, she claps her gloved hands and nudges him with her elbow. He hopes he hasn’t weirded her out, hopes she doesn’t think he’s crazy or a creep or some sad sack with no friends. He dreads what she’s going to say but the longer it takes for her to respond the more anxious he gets. It takes a surprising amount of self-control not to flinch away from her elbow because he’s sure that would be weird. It’s just a friendly dig in the ribs, after all.

"You really are a nerd, aren't you?"

"No! Besides if I am, you are too. Who else would stay at the library ‘til closing?"

"Never said it was a bad thing," she says with a shrug, "embrace the inner nerd. Join the dark side, we have cookies." He sniggers into his hand, an ugly laugh his parents would hate, but is slightly more acceptable than full blown belly-laughter. Perhaps he'll never meet this girl again, but it is so very easy to talk to her and the bus headlights swinging around the corner are bringing this conversation to a close. He sticks out a hand.

"I'm Tim," he tells her. She shakes his hand once, solidly.

"Steph." Tim feels the name settle in his mind like a cat curling up to take a nap. He knows she's here to stay.

It takes ages for the bus to get out of Gotham central, but that’s pretty normal. There’s been a rise in traffic offenses. Or possibly crimes involving public transport? Tim’s not sure. The news isn’t sure. It’s whatever. The buses are later and take longer and everyone’s annoyed about it but they take it as it comes because they’re Gothamites born and bred. Gothamites know there’s no point complaining. If it weren’t for the library, Tim wouldn’t even take this bus. Its closest stop is twenty minutes from his house, and there are no stops where he can change to a route that takes him closer. If he goes straight home after school, he can get the number 5 to central station then change to the 12 for Bristol.

And yet. He goes to the library even though home has a computer _and_ a library of its own (even if the ‘library’ is technically dad’s office that he never got permission to use). He deals with Gotham’s terrible buses even though he has a perfectly functional bike locked away (it used to get used everyday. It took him from Bristol to the Bowery and back, in the days of Batman and Robin).

He gets off at the last stop before the bus makes its way back to the city centre and tramps his way in the direction of home. He doesn’t mind the walk, really, doesn’t mind the weight of his backpack full of books or his shoes that rub slightly. It’s better than being home alone in that empty, tomb-like house. He is glad it’s summer, though. At almost 8pm, it’s getting to that golden hour before the sunset where everything is soft and faded and warm but without the stifling, heavy heat of midday. He only occasionally goes to the library in winter, and mostly on weekends, specifically to avoid the walk home at this time. In summer, the fancy brickwork and shiny glass might be beautiful – or as beautiful as Gotham gets, at any rate – but in winter it becomes menacing and bleak. Tim hates walking in Gotham in the dark.

What Tim hates most though, is coming home to an empty house. He hates coming home to dark rooms with the heating off and reheating Mrs Mac's frozen meals in the microwave. He hates passing the empty hallways and locked doors, how the furniture in the open rooms is covered with white sheets. It feels like he's disturbing a forgotten relic every time he opens the front door. Trespassing every time he toes off his shoes or flings down his bag. He walks silently in his own home because there is something huge and dangerous and smothering in the silence that hangs over it. Something that must not be disrupted. Most kids would dream of the kind of freedom Tim has, but Tim's grown to hate it. The grass is always greener, he supposes. He takes his tupperware of spaghetti up to his room because the dining room table is covered and God forbid he spill tomato sauce on the sofa. Besides, he still has that project to do.

He hands in the project with bags under his eyes deeper than the one in that old Disney movie with the British nanny, and the kind of resignation in his voice that he knows teachers know means he’d done the whole thing the night before. He’s done a good job, he knows; he always does a good job. But sometimes the little vindictive part of him wonders what would happen if he failed on purpose, if the others would finally do their share or if they’d just refuse to work with him and leave him to do it alone anyway. The teacher smiles like she knows what Tim’s gone through to get this project done and maybe she does but Tim won’t get all the credit for it so he doesn’t really care.

Laying his head on his arms, he struggles not to fall asleep as she collects the last of the group projects and begins to lecture them. Why is he even here? His parents have told him more about history than this teacher will ever know, for all that she probably has at least a BA in the subject, and it’s not like it’s one of those ‘transferable skills’ the guidance counsellors keep trying to persuade them they have. There are so many better things he could be doing and only some of those involve wondering about that girl from the library, Steph.

* * *

It’s not like he seeks Steph out and he doesn’t think she’s looking for him either. They just keep bumping into each other. Turns out they get on well and he starts to consider her a friend. He likes her goofy sense of humour and the way she’s always willing to lend a hand. Sometimes, after they finish their homework, they play card games – quietly, of course – until closing. It’s his idea to swap numbers, after their third post-closing bus stop conversation when they’d left together because they’d spent two hours doing homework together.

He texts her most of the way home now instead of paying attention to what’s going on outside like normal. What’s going on outside doesn’t really matter when he has a new friend to talk to who isn’t Ives (Ives who responds to messages at the least convenient moments, who’s gotten Tim’s phone confiscated more times than he can count with ill-timed texts, who Tim loves with all his heart but also gets _so frustrated_ with). When he gets off the bus, ready for the walk, he keeps texting. He knows this walk like the back of his hand, like he knows the way to the bathroom in the dark, so it’s easy to keep half an ear out for cars as he crosses the road and presses his thumb to the reader on the gate. The car in the driveway does not register until he lets himself in at the back door and hears his parents’ voices from the lounge.

He freezes midway through hanging up his blazer. When did they get back? Had they sent an email that he’d missed? A phone call? It’s been – he quickly counts back from March – almost five months since he’d seen them without a screen between them, almost a month since they’d spoken at all. And yet, peeking around the doorframe, he can see them sitting on the couch, talking quietly, still in their suits from the airport. He shoves his phone to the bottom of his bag. Creeps for the stairs, almost managing to slip away, and fails.

“Timothy, darling. Where have you been? We’ve been waiting for you to come home.” He pauses and lets his mother drag him back towards her with her voice.

“I was at the library,” he tells her. “School work.” She nods and smiles that sterile, business-like smile.

“Of course. I’m glad you’re working so hard. Now go change, quickly. We have dinner plans.”

It happens like this: Tim and his parents arrive at the house of Robert Brown at 7pm. They are taken immediately to the dining room and treated to some of the fanciest food Tim has seen in months. Robert Brown and his parents leave to talk business, leaving Tim alone with Robert Brown’s wife who doesn’t seem to know what to do with him. She leaves him to go yell at the kitchen staff about something. Tim is left alone and Tim is a very curious, very intelligent child who has suddenly found himself with no supervision whatsoever. An empty room is not interesting. The door to the study, left open just a crack, is. If he stays very still and listens closely, it is enough for Tim to hear the conversation within.

"… and you had no trouble with airport security at this end?” That was Robert Brown speaking.

“They suspected nothing. Our Ethiopian contact will send the rest over shortly.”

“Good. And the buyer?”

“Already lined up. Dr Anderson is keen to receive his prize.”

“Excellent. I trust that the last transaction went just as smoothly?”

“Robert, we’re not idiots.”

“Yes, yes, but you know me; I always like to be certain.”

“Of course, but still, you wouldn’t have been half as successful without us and we couldn’t have gotten onto half of those digs without you. We need to trust each other if this is going to work.”

A sigh, probably Robert Brown, and the chink of a glass on wood.

“Peru next?”

“Peru, yes. There’s a collection of tombs in Cajamarca that sounds promising. I’ve heard the jewellery is so stunning perhaps your wife might even accept a piece.”

They laugh and Tim knows it’s time to make himself scarce.

His parents leave days later. He’s not surprised, really; he didn’t expect them to stay. It’s not even that disappointing anymore. Sure, they left before his birthday so he’d spend it alone again. Sure, they didn’t tell him they were leaving so he’d come home from school to find them long gone. But that’s okay. He can spend time doing stupid stuff his parents wouldn’t approve of: watch cartoons and eat chips from the bag and play video games and scroll through the OnlyInGotham hashtag until the small hours of the morning instead of going to bed at a reasonable hour. It’s not like he’s missing much by them not being there; Mrs Mac still makes food for him to reheat every week, still cleans the house. He still goes to school every day, still does his own laundry because he’s _not_ a child. Life goes on like they never existed. He forgets about dinner, forgets about Robert Brown, forgets about cases full of Ethiopian gold.

He talks to Steph every day. They talk about everything and nothing: homework and TV shows and whatever topic has most recently caught their interest and Tim talks about the obscure memes Ives sends him and Steph talks about bands and music Tim’s never heard of. She tells him what she wants for her future and Tim envies her surety, her confidence. Tim has no idea what he wants. He talks about the business, about his parents’ travels but half his mind is on that conversation he’d overheard and god he hoped Steph wasn’t listening too hard because he’s not making much sense but his brain is running on at least two different tracks at once except they’re not that different at all and–

“Holy shit, Steph, my parents are criminals!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steph tells Tim some secrets of her own. They (don't) begin to make some plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we go with chapter 2! Thanks again to my lovely betas (we're the best team. Go us!) who have worked so hard on this.

Steph isn’t an adrenaline junkie. She never _wanted_ to learn to swing between rooftops or punch bad guys in the face. She doesn’t _want_ to enjoy it. Except she does. A little bit. Okay, a lot. The rush she gets from it is awesome and the thrill of doing something good never really left and - actually maybe she is a bit of a junkie after all. Even if she didn’t want to enjoy it, the truth remains that she does, and wondering what her life would be like without her dad being who he is, without her cape and cowl, without a city missing its most famous hero, changes nothing. There’s no point in pondering a life that doesn’t exist. Her dad is Cluemaster; she’s Spoiler. She trains with the Birds on Wednesdays and patrols with them on Saturdays. That’s all there is to it.

Except. She made a new friend this week. This is unusual. Steph is an extrovert, a people-person; she’s bubbly and friendly and smart and funny and not bad looking (if she does say so herself). She’s everything that should mean she’s popular, but if there is one constant in her life it’s this: Stephanie Brown does not get to have friends. She likes to blame it on her dad (she likes to blame everything on her dad) and it mostly is his fault. Having a parent put in jail by Batman might be a claim to fame anywhere else in the world but in Gotham it’s just a reason to stay far, far away. She learned this in second grade when her then-bff, Macy, told her in that solemn, brutally honest way that kids have, that “mommy said I shouldn’t talk to baddies,” before latching onto Andi all the way through to middle school. There are people she talks to, obviously, people she sits with at lunch or works with in class and teams up with for sports. They are not her friends. Outside of school, she doesn’t speak to them – she can’t exactly ask someone to go to the movies when she spends half her nights stopping bank robbers and muggers in alleys – and they don’t try. She’s a criminal waiting to happen.

Tim is a nice surprise. After they met the first time, she kept an eye out for him and it turns out he comes to the library quite often. He doesn’t go to her school. Actually, she doesn’t know much about his life other than that he’s about her age, lives on the nicer side of Gotham, and is horribly, horribly awkward. She finds it endearing, somehow. They exchange numbers, and discord accounts, and talk all the time that they’re not busy with other things (Steph more than Tim, though Tim is also far busier than any normal high-schooler should be). He’s Steph’s first real friend since second grade and he doesn’t find that as sad as Steph does herself. Tonight is a quiet night and she logs in far later than she should to find Tim online. Conversation flows easy with him and she ignores her mom’s warning about giving away too much online. She lies in bed and they message back and forth and Tim tells her about photography and she tells him about nephrology.

"I want to be a nurse," she says quietly into the darkness of her room and Tim responds because he always does.

"That's so cool. Why a nurse, though? Why not a doctor?" Steph thinks about it, stays silent for a long time.

"I want to help people. But I want to do that by being there, being hands-on and actually talking to people and..." She trails off. "It's dumb–"

"No it's not."

"I wasn't done, Tim. It's dumb, but... my mom used to be a nurse. Before. She had me really young, like she hadn't even started her residency when I was born, but she worked hard and she got there. I remember her reading me chapters from her textbooks before bed when I was really little. And I don't want all that hard work, all that love, to go to waste." The clock ticked away in the background. Five ticks, seven.

“Well I guess that explains why you know so much biology,” Tim says and she snorts. This is a normal conversation, so Steph asks Tim if he knows what’s coming in his future.

“I think my parents want me to take over the business,” he says. “It’s not like I have any better ideas, so I guess I’ll just do that.” 

His resignation makes Steph sad. It’s the least enthusiastic she’s ever heard him, really, his voice is flat and spiritless. Running a business would make him miserable, she thinks. Out loud she asks: “is it a good business?”

Tim starts rambling. Steph hasn’t known him for _that_ long, but it’s been long enough to know he rambles when he’s uncomfortable or nervous, that he gets out of making things personal by spewing facts and figures. That’s fine. She made him uncomfortable and she feels bad about it, but as he goes on and on about GPS mapping in the new app Drake Industries is developing she traces her newest patrol route in the air with her finger. Tim’s voice makes good background noise. Then he says something – sharp and sudden – that makes Steph shoot upright in surprise. 

“What did you say?” she asks, because no she can’t have heard him correctly.

“I think they might be criminals? My parents?” Oh, Tim.

“I think maybe you need to explain a few things. I zoned out, like, a whole topic ago. Why are you parents criminals?” She’s definitely curious now. It’s a self-centred kind of interest, a ‘maybe I’ve found someone like me’ kind of interest (and an ‘oooh a new case for the Spoiler’ kind of interest) but she still wants to help Tim and maybe talking it out will help him a bit. Get the thoughts straight in his head.

“The first thing my dad taught me was ‘if you don’t want people to know, pay it in cash.’ And that makes sense but why? And then we went to visit this guy, Robert Brown, when they last came back. We had dinner with him and his wife but then they went to talk business and I… well I eavesdropped. It was just weird. I don’t know; they said some stuff that sounded dodgy like how “they suspected nothing”, and customs officials and an Ethiopian contact. Which is all circumstantial, I know, but then there was this segment in a magazine a few days ago – hang on let me send it to you –” Steph feels her phone buzz against her ear but she can’t check it while she’s listening to Tim. “That thing was _in our house_ , Steph. My parents sold it to a guy they know in Star like two months ago and now I find out it’s _stolen_ ? They’re trafficking stolen historical artefacts to other rich people. That’s the only explanation. They’re stealing stuff from their digs, stuff that belongs in _museums_ or with their native people and they’re using them for money and I don’t know, Steph. I just don’t know. It’s all so messed up and I don’t know what to do.” He seems frantic and Steph can understand why. It’s pretty damning evidence. What is she even meant to say? How is she meant to help?

...Oh, yeah. She’s Spoiler. That’s a thing, isn’t it?

“Hey, Tim,” she says and he stops his frantic words to listen. That’s encouraging; she really didn’t want to have to shout to get his attention. “I think I _might_ be able to help.” 

She tells him to meet her at the library the next day, gives him a time and a table to ease his worry. It takes barely a second to dismiss the thought that maybe she should keep this part of her life a secret. Tim’s her best friend, her only friend. Tim needs help. These two situations are not mutually exclusive and she can _help him._ That’s the whole point of being Spoiler (she ignores that traitorous part of her that hisses it was just to stop her dad because while that may have been true once, it isn’t now). So, she’s going to tell him, and tell him to keep it secret. She trusts him just as much as she trusts the Birds, as much as her mom – when she’s sober – and even if it scares her, she wants so much to share this whole adventure with a friend.

* * *

The table she told Tim to go to is sandwiched between the back wall and the geology shelf. There’s a weird sticky-out bit of wall on one side, too. It’s the most sheltered table she can think of, where they’re least likely to be interrupted or overheard. Never let it be said that Steph doesn’t take precautions. She’s also more than aware that Babs has a camera trained on the spot _and_ has a shift at this time; by the time this conversation is over Tim will know, and Babs will know that Tim knows. Steph trusts Babs with her life, is just a little bit in love with her, and has absolute faith in her abilities. Babs won’t let Tim spill the beans, even though she’s 99% certain that Tim wouldn’t do that anyway.

She gets there early and uses the time to read the article Tim sent her. It’s not the kind of thing she’d usually read, if she’s honest. History was never her strong suit and this is like, waist deep in history stuff she can't even begin to understand: names of tribes, names of eras and regions and pottery styles lost to time and archeological methods that could help resurrect them. She skims over it. She doesn’t need the details. The gist of it, as far as she can tell, is that something got stolen – something valuable – and no one can find it. There are pictures and holy crap how had they gotten _that_ back to Gotham without being caught. Actual pottery. All in one piece. She finds herself reluctantly impressed.

Tim’s panting when he arrives. He probably ran from the bus because he’s a good five minutes later than the time Steph told him, but she doesn’t mind, really, and she tells him so over his stammered apologies. They sit. Steph pulls out a chemistry textbook just so they look like they’re doing something and turns it to a random page. They don’t say anything for a long time.

“So....” Tim begins uncertainly. He’s looking anywhere but at Steph as he says it. “You said you could help?” He says it like a question, like he says everything that isn’t a fact he’s reciting. Steph nods and smiles. She tries for a reassuring grin but thinks it maybe comes out more like a grimace.

“Yep,” she says, and she thinks her grin might be less strained now. How does she tell him this? She wants it to be suitably dramatic, a big reveal, so to speak, but she doesn't quite know how. Glancing once at the little camera in the corner, she steels herself and leans forward. 

“What do you know about vigilantes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Steph point of view for you on this fine morning. I genuinely love writing Steph; she's so much fun.
> 
> Anyway, I'm thinking of doing a two-weekly posting schedule (as in, I will post a chapter every other week) so by the time I run out of pre-written stuff, I'll have finished the rest. Hopefully that's okay with you lot.
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter! Let me know what you think.  
> The kudos/comment emails are the highlight of my day I love you all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Steph make a plan and Tim does some detective work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has it been more than 2 weeks? I think it's been more than 2 weeks. I'm sorry.  
> ANYWay. So that election, huh? That was a whole thing. But yay! We got rid of the mouldy orange man.  
> (My excuse for not updating is that I was so stressed about the election I accidently made myself ill. Fun times.)
> 
> Thanks as always to my amazing betas for their help on this!

Steph asks him what he knows about vigilantes and Tim almost laughs. What _doesn't_ he know about vigilantes might be a better question. He doesn't mention this, though. Instead, he asks:

"Do you mean we should _talk_ to some vigilantes, or _become_ vigilantes?" Steph looks him dead in the eye when she responds.

"Both?"

"Both?" he says, raising his eyebrows.

"Both is good," she finishes, and then laughs so hard she bangs her head on the table. He sniggers too, it's hard not to, but doesn't ask anymore questions. Steph has more to say, he thinks, so he lets her finish laughing.

"There's something I haven't told you," she finally says, wiping her eyes. The pause is obviously for dramatic effect and Tim rolls his eyes.

"Well what is it then," he asks and she glares pointedly. Fair enough. He ruined her fun.

"I'm the Spoiler," she says, like Tim didn't already know.

There are many things that Tim could say. ‘ _That’s so cool, Steph.’ ‘You’re kidding me.’ ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ ‘Wow; I never would have guessed.’_ Tim says none of these things. What Tim says instead is “Okay. So what do we do now?”

It turns out Steph doesn’t actually know what they should do; she just thinks being a vigilante makes her helpful by default. She’s not wrong, exactly, but Tim would appreciate a solid plan, please and thank you, so they start brainstorming. Tim’s parents absolutely cannot know about any of this under any circumstances, they decide very quickly. It’s not that Tim’s scared of them exactly, or thinks they’d hurt him, but they’re sort of criminals and for all that they’re his parents, he doesn’t actually know them that well. They’re gone most of the time. This is actually a good thing. Tim can work from the inside to take them down, like a super-spy except smaller and less badass, and they won’t even know until it’s too late… provided they don’t catch him somehow. But Tim’s good at being sneaky: just ask Batman. (Or don’t. Tim would really rather Batman wasn’t asked about Tim’s sneakiness). 

In any case, they need a plan that isn’t just ‘stop Tim’s parents somehow using the almighty powers of Spoiler and whatever Tim can cobble together’, but so far they have none. They throw ideas around that get progressively more ridiculous (“I could dress up as Batman and threaten them until they admit to it!” “Steph, no!” “Steph, _yes_.”) It’s been hours and they haven’t been loud exactly but they also haven’t been whispering. Hopefully, if anyone heard them, they assumed it was just a couple of kids messing around, or a writing project or something. It’s Gotham; there are weirder things that happen. But it’s been a while and they’re frustrated by lack of headway, by useless plans and being trapped and Steph, in her infinite wisdom, suggests the one thing Tim never thought she would.

"Why don't we just gather evidence and send it to the police? We could do an anonymous tipoff if that's what you're worried about. Witnesses do it all the time." Tim stares at her like she's grown an extra head, or lost the one she has.

"Steph, do you have any idea how rich my parents are? Going to the police won't _matter_ because they'll just pay them off."

"What do you suggest then?" Tim thinks about it for a moment. They can't just tell the police. Even if Steph goes as Spoiler, the info would come from a kid and it wouldn't make any difference anyway. What could they do?

"We could just... return the stuff they stole? Take it back to museums where they came from, that sort of thing," he says and Steph considers it.

"Sure," she says. "Yeah, that could work. You track them down; I go get the stuff. You're good at detective computer stuff, yeah?" Tim nods. He’s good at that kind of stuff.

"Awesome. What's our first target then?"

* * *

Tim is 99.9% sure the stuff from Ethiopia does not belong to his parents, or to Robert Brown, or to whoever paid a probably ridiculous amount of money to buy it from them. He’s over 70% sure it belongs back in Ethiopia (the remaining 30% is sure it belongs in a museum) and at least 50% sure he can track down where the stuff is for Steph to grab. Those are pretty good odds, as far as he’s concerned. Steph agrees. She says anything with more than 50% chance of succeeding is practically a guarantee of success and anything less than is just more difficult, not impossible. She’s so supportive, so excited. Tim hopes he doesn’t let her down.

The first thing he does is convince Steph to not wear her Spoiler suit. It’s surprisingly hard. Steph is almost unreasonably attached to the name. And the way the suit feels. And the colour. Particularly the colour. But purple (“it’s _eggplant_ , Tim,” as Steph tells him constantly) does not blend in well in the dark of people’s offices and safes and if she’s caught it would ruin her reputation as a crime fighter. Tim still loves Gotham’s vigilantes. He would hate for them to be targeted or hated because of him. Eventually, common sense wins out and Steph agrees to wear a different suit for their more illegal endeavours. She’s not happy about it, but she’ll do it.

The next thing he does is make the suit. He takes inspiration from her Spoiler suit, of course, the hood and full face mask, the tall boots and utility belt. He even makes the inside of the hood purple, just for her. He sticks in a little comms unit, like the one she showed him from her own costume, and makes sure, against his better judgement, that she has a knife. He tells himself it’s not a weapon, not really. It’s a useful tool and it’s not, like, a fighting knife; it’s a swiss army knife, with all the tools that go with it. She won’t be able to use most of her Spoiler equipment anyway so it makes sense to give her _something_. It’s not perfect – it looks homemade and unprofessional – but that’s probably a good thing. No one will suspect an actual vigilante, or someone with Tim’s money and resources, is behind a crime committed in such a costume. 

Once Steph is sorted and raring to go, Tim sets his sights on the Ethiopian gold. He’s scoured his house top to bottom and found nothing, so he knows it’s not there, but he doesn’t think it’s been moved on to whoever paid the money. That leaves Robert Brown. Tim’s little conspiracy board is looking tangled but he knows it will only get worse. There’s no way to do recon, really. It’s not like they can sneak into his house and snoop. There are no convenient cameras to get access to, no record in his parents files (why they leave their office door locked with a key they _leave in the house_ is beyond Tim. That’s the first rule of hiding stuff they’ve broken). Urgh. He really can’t think of anywhere else it would be. Did his parents leave anything at Robert Brown’s house? Did they take any boxes or bags or packages anywhere before they left? Damn it, what if they’d moved the stuff while he was at school or asleep? What if it’s in a completely different place, stored and ready for shipping? It could just be sitting in a warehouse by the docks, or in a storage container near the airport, or in an office at the university. Who knows who else is involved in this thing. Tim grips his head in his hands and muffles a scream in his elbow. This is so frustrating! He’s meant to be smart. This is his job in his and Steph's little team: find the stuff to steal back and make the plan. If he can’t even do this, what use is he? They will have quite literally fallen at the first hurdle.

Tim needs to break it down. Nothing makes sense when he’s looking at the big picture like this and he needs details. What does he know for sure? His parents are in cahoots with Robert Brown, their friend and business partner. Robert Brown has contacts with ‘Dr Andersen’ who has a lot of money and an interest in history. Robert Brown is the curator of Gotham University’s museum: an ideal place to access priceless artefacts and also hide them. Museums always have far more items than could ever be displayed and it would be so easy to slip a few things away before they get catalogued, or slip them in to hide among countless other boxes and crates in storage. It makes perfect sense. But Tim doesn't like to act without proof. He needs evidence.

It is far too easy to pull up the museum’s access records and find his answers. Robert Brown used his keycard to swipe into the special collections at quarter to eleven on the night his parents got home, the night they went to his house for dinner. He did not go to his office, did not go to any other rooms. He entered and left before the security guard could finish his circuit of the building. In and out, easy as pie. If Robert Brown could do it, so could Steph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun story: When I originally wrote this bit, literal months ago, I got stuck in my head that 'Dr Andersen' had something to do with the British Museum, which I have a love hate relationship with. Turns out, 'Dr Andersen' is actually 'Professor Andersen' and she works in the history department of my university. So make of that what you will.
> 
> Let me know what you think. I love to hear from you all!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleepover time! Tim and Steph come up with a plan to get the stuff back where it came from (sorta).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late. Super late. I'm sorry.  
> Ngl I'm probably not going to put another update out until after the end of term. Uni is kicking my butt this semester for some reason.
> 
> Anyway, hope you like the chapter! Thanks so much to everyone who's left a comment so far!  
> (As always, thanks so much to my betas. I owe you guys my life you are the best).

It’s pretty rare for Steph to not pay attention in Biology. Today, however, the diagrams on the board blur into nonsensical squiggles and the teacher’s voice fades into background noise just like the whirr of the overhead projector. Even if he called on her, she wouldn’t register it. She should probably be concerned by that. She can’t help it though; her mind is a million miles away (or halfway across Gotham, anyway) geared up in her Spoiler costume and kicking bad guy butt. Last night, she’d busted some major drug traffickers and Oracle had told her ‘good job’ when they rendezvous-ed at the Clocktower. The praise left a warm spot in her chest. Tonight, she’ll go out again and track down their leader. Babs might be the brains of the operation, but Steph’s more than smart enough to know that the guys she helped put away last night were no more than hired muscle. 

She’s also meeting Tim after school, or rather, he’s meeting her. He said he had something to show her and the part of her that isn’t raring to go find Oracle and keep up the momentum on the ‘good job’s is unreasonably excited about what Tim has in store for her. He even offered her dinner and who would she be to turn down free food? Besides, Tim’s super rich; he’s bound to have, like, a personal chef or something. It definitely beats whatever her mom chucks together when she remembers that food is a thing humans need to survive.

So, she’s not focused. Her brain is simultaneously lagging and running at top speed so when the bell rings to let them go, she barely notices. It isn’t until the door slams open that she remembers that she needs to pack up her stuff and leave, that Tim’s waiting for her outside (he gets out a full twenty minutes before her, the lucky bastard), and finally manages to pull herself together. 

Tim has his bike, which surprises her. Somehow she’d assumed he’d take a cab despite the fact she’d seen him take the bus every time they have a library meet up and she’d once seen him cycle from her house back to his. They don’t get the bus. It means they have to walk and Steph both hates walking and has so much exercise to do tonight that she’s already groaning internally. Her legs are going to die. She can feel it. 

They use the walk to talk. It’s not about their plans or anything like that, nothing that could incriminate them, just TV shows and the book Tim has to read for his lit class this term (The Catcher in the Rye, and he  _ hates  _ it). She chimes in with her thoughts, shapes conversation into things easy to follow and progress, slips in a theory about the plot of that series they’re both watching, the cliffhanger on episode nine, that revelation no one saw coming. Even though this visit has a purpose, even though they both have a job to do, it’s nice sometimes to be brought back down to earth and just be high school kids having a laugh on their way home from school. 

It’s something that’s harder to keep hold of as they get closer to Tim’s house. Tim starts getting tenser, more furtive and embarrassed, and Steph feels out of place. She tries to keep hold of their levity but it slips through her fingers like smoke.

Tim’s gate has a fingerprint scanner which is pretty epic. It swings open at his command and they trek up the driveway in silence, gravel crunching under their feet. He lets them in through the back door, throws off his bag and leaves his sneakers by the door. Steph follows because what else is she meant to do? She ignores that the house feels more like a museum than a home. She ignores that Tim doesn’t call out to anyone, that no one is there to hear them.

They go up to Tim’s room and well, Steph can say with absolute certainty that it’s a bit of a mess (and that’s putting it lightly). The bed is unmade, there’s laundry on the floor and the desk, oh god, the desk. Tim’s desk is hidden under a mound of papers and books and littered with snack wrappers to the extent that there’s barely room for his computer. She can’t tell what papers are worksheets for school, what are notes for their case and what are just random papers he has on whatever topic he’s most interested in at the moment (lizards, from what she remembers). In fact, she’s so horrified by the state of his desk, she doesn’t notice Tim pulling out his conspiracy board.

It’s honestly kind of impressive. She can’t make out the details yet – probably won’t ever be able to without Tim’s help – but it actually looks pretty organised, if tangled. There are pictures and maps and blueprints and diagrams and a whole load of articles and some emails printed and they’re all linked together with the traditional red string and thumbtacks. She lets out a low, appreciative whistle.

“Why aren’t you getting straight As again, Tim?” she asks because wow, that must have taken a lot of work. Tim shrugs.

“School’s boring. This is much more interesting. And besides, we’re actually doing something constructive with this. What’s calc homework going to do that helps save a country’s sacred artefacts from white colonialism?” That’s fair. She goes back to staring at the board while Tim goes rummaging through the mess of papers on his desk.

He sits opposite her on the bed and throws down a map of Gotham.

“The loot is here,” he says, pointing to a building near the university museum. “It’s in a private collection on the top floor, where all the offices are. You’re looking for gold mostly. Jewelry and a cup. I’ll give you a bag to carry it all in.” She nods and traces a route from her house to the building. It’s not super close but closer than her usual patrol route.

“Does Wednesday sound good?” She has Wednesday off. Babs is meticulous about her having a good work-school-life balance which is basically a joke at this point but it’s coming in handy now so she’s not complaining. Tim nods. Wednesday is also normally the day they meet in the library to do homework because neither of them have any extracurriculars then. It also means that at least once, one of them will reference the infamous vine. Steph loves Wednesdays.

“We need to think about how to get it back to Ethiopia, too,” Tim says and he’s being so serious about this whole thing that Steph can’t help but laugh inwardly. She can’t blame him really, she’s serious about stopping her dad every time he gets out of prison, but every time she sees sweet, dorky Tim get so serious and brooding she’s reminded a little of the old days when Robin used to perch on Gargoyles and monologue Shakespeare when he thought no one was looking. Steph was looking because her house happened to be right across the street and if you didn’t want anyone to see you monologuing Shakespeare at 2am you shouldn’t do it near people’s houses, even if the gargoyles made the atmosphere perfect. So, yes, she does chuckle a little, but only on the inside. She’s not mean enough to mock Tim when he’s clearly trying so hard.

“We could fed-ex it?” she asks, stupidly. Tim looks at her with such a blank, dead-eyed stare that she starts to giggle. He looks like her teacher when Rodger from World History asks for the fiftieth time who discovered America (and as she’s learnt from Tim, not the teacher, America a- wasn’t “discovered” by anyone and b- was first settled by the Greenlandic Norse and not Columbus). It’s the kind of long suffering look that takes time to perfect. She’d gather Tim has a Rodger from World History in at least one of his classes too.

“God, Steph we can’t just fed-ex millions of dollars worth of literal gold to  _ Ethiopia _ are you insane?”

“I know, I know. Support USPS and all that but seriously we could just post it. Who thinks to check the mail for stolen stuff?”

“Literally everyone, Steph,” Tim tells her with a sigh. He’s right and she knows it. How many times have they caught out drug and weapons traffickers because they sent their merchandise through the shipping lanes? It was mostly an attempt to get him to lighten up, but it looks like that’s not going to happen. Fair enough. She’s not sure she’d be willing to joke around if it were her dad they were trying to stop either.

“It’s almost summer vacation. You fancy a trip to Ethiopia?” Tim looks like he’s considering it for all of about two seconds.

“I’m pretty sure my parents would notice if I set off for Ethiopia right after they came back  _ and  _ right after their precious loot got restolen. Otherwise, yeah I’d love to go.” He sighs and Steph remembers that even though he’s been burned by it his whole life, Tim really has inherited his parents’ wanderlust. Sometimes he seems so synonymous with Gotham that it’s hard to imagine him anywhere else. Steph’s the same, but in the complete opposite direction. Where Tim’s all porcelain skin and rock hard resolve and cool eyes, Steph’s more like a dandelion clawing its way up through a crack in the pavement: spunky and tenacious and still sunshine-y bright despite the world trying to endlessly beat her back with all the subtlety of a weed whacker. But Tim wants to leave sometimes, wants to see the things his parents left him for.

He wants to see if they were worth it. Sometimes he doesn’t know whether he hopes they are or hopes they’re not. It’s one of those private, deep musings that can only be spoken aloud in the dead of night. Tim told Steph when they were both half asleep and rambling. She’s not sure he remembers telling her.

They sit quietly for a minute, remembering that, oh yeah, they’re still technically kids and they can’t just do whatever the hell they want because there are still adults who they have to get past first.

“Anyway,” Tim begins again. “How would we get it through security? You can’t put metal in your carry-on and even if you could get it through security in your checked luggage it’s not like you can just stroll through ‘nothing to declare’ with a suitcase full of stolen goods, even if you are returning them.” 

Steph considers this, and comes to a brilliant conclusion.

“If we’re disguising me and this whole operation anyway, why not disguise the stuff as well? Make all that gold jewelry look like it isn’t centuries old stolen history and more like some tacky necklace that some rich teenager with more money than sense would like.”

And that’s the look she always wants to see on Tim’s face. Awe and relief and shock and delight all rolled into one package. It’s a great face. His feet twitch against the duvet and his hands flicker up once before slipping under his thighs.

“Steph, you absolute genius,” he bursts out and Steph grins. She’ll take any praise she can get.

* * *

It turns out Tim doesn’t have a private chef, or anything fancy at all really. He’s left to his own devices and cooks for himself and doesn’t really like ordering takeout. He says it’s because it’s always cold by the time it gets all the way out here and Steph can see it, but also she thinks he likes having stuff to do. He makes them a hamburger helper and it’s so domestic, so simple, but somehow it tastes better than when her mom makes it, even though they forgot about it and almost burnt it. They eat directly out of the pan and battle for the last soft bits of pasta and scrape the pan clean of sauce with slices of bread (which is actually the fancy kind with whole grains and seeds and stuff). It’s unconventional, but it’s so Tim and, hey, it’s food. She’s full. She can’t complain about people feeding her. It also gives them a bit of downtime before they start back up with their planning. Tim still hasn’t shown her his surprise yet and she’s almost rattling apart with anticipation by now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heist time folks!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M ALIVE!!  
> I have officially finished all my uni assignments (phew) and I'm back in the land of the living. So now you get a new chapter.  
> Sorry I kept you all waiting. Hopefully I'll be able to stay somewhat consistent from now on.

Once they’ve eaten, Tim takes Steph back to his room. It’s not like they couldn’t have set up somewhere else in the house, his parents aren’t home and Mrs Mac isn’t coming until the weekend, but something about disturbing the untouched rooms beyond the kitchen and Tim’s bedroom sends a shiver down his spine. They are monuments to everything his parents built, a private collection of trophies and souvenirs, and they are not to be touched. Even the living room feels more like a museum than a home. So, they troop back up the stairs to Tim’s room. Steph sits on the swivel chair at his desk. Tim goes back to rifling through his wardrobe.

He pulls out the box he was looking for, carefully not looking at the padlocked treasure box next to it, and lays it on the bed.

“Have at it,” he says to Steph with a grin and she leaps forward with an almost predatory zeal. She’s been excited about this, he knows, and him telling her it’s a surprise probably didn’t help. He hopes it lives up to her expectations.

“Oh wow, Tim. It’s perfect!” Steph squeals and, oh, okay, Tim has a load of blonde hair in his mouth and Steph is practically lying on top of him. This is fine. He raises one arm and pats her on the back in an awkward hug. He doesn’t really know what to do.

“It’s not  _ that  _ good,” he says when she finally lets him go. “It’s nowhere near as amazing as yours.” Steph’s discovered the purple hood lining and squeaks again. She’s practically bouncing up and down with excitement and Tim’s happy she likes it but also it’s really not that impressive. 

“It’s just a hooded top, lined of course, though we really shouldn’t be running into the kind of problems where you’ll need the protection, and some cargo pants. Really, it’s not that exciting.”

“It’s so cool, though,” says Steph, tossing the army knife end over end. Tim definitely shouldn’t have given it to her. That was a mistake. “Having a suit makes it feel real. Like, we’re really actually doing this, Tim. No going back.” Tim’s breath catches in his chest. ‘No going back.’ There really isn’t, now, is there? He can’t go back to the oblivious boy he used to be, believing, like most kids do, that his parents were good people. And Steph. She can’t go back to just being Spoiler any more than she can go back to being just Stephanie Brown the high school student. If they mess this up, if they get caught, there are going to be actual tangible consequences.

“You know, you don’t have to do this, right?” he tells her, when the pressure feels too much to bear, and she looks at him, steel in her eyes as she responds.

“You couldn’t stop me if you tried.”

* * *

It feels a little like everything is moving too fast, like Tim’s in a sports car flying down the freeway towards an intersection and his feet don’t reach the brakes, because before he knows it, the weekend’s been and gone, and it’s Wednesday and Steph is texting to ask if they’re still on for tonight. Tim hadn’t forgotten, exactly, but even though he knew it was soon and he knew it was important, he hadn’t exactly spent every waking moment thinking about it. To focus on their mission was to neglect homework and while Tim knows that, in the grand scheme of things, homework doesn’t matter, he has a reputation to uphold. He does his homework. And then on Monday they get more homework, and again on Tuesday, and now it’s lunchtime on Wednesday and Steph’s checking in because they haven’t spoken since Monday when they chatted their way through Tim’s Bio packet and Steph’s French assignment. His phone feels like a brick in his pocket and he sees the lunchtime supervisor watching their table so he doesn’t dare open it, but he knows it’s Steph. Who else would it be?

He doesn’t get to check his phone until the end of the day and, yep, it’s Steph. She says exactly what he thought she’d say: ‘ _ tonights still ok yeah?’  _ He texts back an affirmative, even though it’s been hours now, and starts to walk. It takes time to walk back to his house from school but he likes it. It’s exercise and it’s probably a safer, quicker journey than the bus that goes round all the other rich neighbourhoods before it gets to Tim’s end of town. The walk from school is nicer than the walk from the library. He gets to walk through the park and hear the birds singing, along the river (but not the docks, never the docks), and up past the university campus. It takes almost an hour if he dawdles, but only half of that if he walks fast. In spring, it’s pretty nice, but in summer when the heat burns, it’s almost unbearable and in winter the rain and wind and slush are just plain nasty. Then he gets the bus. Mostly though, the school bus ticket his parents pay for every year sits unused in the pocket of his jacket.

Today, he stops at a bodega for snacks. There’s plenty at home but there’s something thrilling about buying illicit junk food for a midnight snack and it’s not like he’s going to have time to cook a meal once he gets started. Better to stock up now than realise way too late that he’s starving. It’s a bodega Tim knows; he stops there for snacks on his way home quite often, if he missed lunch or just feels hungry, so the guy recognises his face, but he doesn’t go in often enough to be on a first name basis.The guy at the counter asks if he’s having a slumber party when he loads his junk onto the counter and part of him seethes at the comparison to a twelve year old girl but he doesn’t show it, just laughs and says no, but his friends are doing late night videogames so it’s best to be prepared. The guy agrees and waves when Tim leaves. 

There’s work to do when he gets home, so he skips homework and pulls out his conspiracy board one last time, studies the links, trails fingers against the tangled strings. He’s right. He knows he’s right. His computer boots up and he piles all the papers that aren’t about the case on his bed. They’d only distract him and he needs to be completely focused. His phone pings and he opens the voice chat so Steph can talk to him as they get ready. There’s no going back now. 

* * *

Tim’s room is lit only by the light of his computer screen and it feels like his own private Batcave. He has a million tabs open – floor plans, security cameras, pages and pages of code – but it’s not too much for him. He memorised the data beforehand; they’re only open in case he forgets. But he won't forget. In his ear, Steph is chatting away, waiting for his signal. He feels powerful, in control.

He feels electric.

Is this what being a vigilante feels like? Is this what Oracle feels in the centre of her web? Or what Robin used to feel before a big bust? It's excitement; it's fear; it's the fizzle of adrenaline in his skin, the goosebumbs not even his fuzzy blanket can alleviate.

Tim - like every other kid in Gotham - used to dream about being Robin, about flying through the city and kicking goons down, cracking puns, about taking down the biggest villains and fighting off hoards of bad guys every night. He - like every other kid in Gotham - knew he was unlikely to ever experience it. It's a good thing, probably, because Tim isn't really anything special, definitely isn't good enough to be Robin, but he thinks this might be the closest he'll ever get to experiencing that rush Steph talks about for himself. 

He cracks his knuckles. Steph's almost at the museum and it's time to get started.

Steph doesn’t show up on any of the cameras, which is good because it means either she’s keeping out of sight or his video loop code is working. Either way, they’re not about to be caught by the sleepy museum security. Everything is going according to plan. He coaches her though anything he can't do remotely, watches through the tiny video cam he installed on her suit as her hands press buttons and flick switches. They get all the way to the display case, get all the way up to disabling the alarms and lifting the lid and Steph reaches in to take out an obscene amount of gold jewellry. 

A gasp. Her hands stop.

“Steph?” he asks and gets no response. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It turns out having a mountain of assignments, post grad applications that I still haven't finished, and a hellish couple of days bc uk politics are completely bonkers guys I am not kidding someone help us (pls don't we deserve it) is not exactly conducive to good writing practices. Oh well.   
> Hope you like the chapter! Let me know what you think in comments etc. and I'll see you next time!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get a resolution for that cliffhanger last time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!!  
> So sorry for the cliffhanger last time (though a lot of you figured it out so well done to all of you I guess)  
> Hope you like this chapter!!

If you’d told Steph last year that she’d be breaking into rich-person houses and museums to steal priceless artefacts in her free time, she’d have said you were deluded. Stephanie Brown isn’t some petty criminal. Stephanie Brown is the Spoiler: here to spoil the bad guy’s evil plans since 2017. Except that’s exactly what she’s doing now – stealing stuff, that is. It’s kind of an “ends justify the means” situation, though. If she steals the stuff now, then later she can give it back to the people who are missing it, who deserve it more. Plus it’ll majorly piss off Tim’s parents and they definitely deserve it. So, she surprisingly doesn’t mind turning to the dark side and besides, it’s twenty bi-teen. Be gay do crime, as the internet says. She ignores the part of her that screams all the people who told her she wasn’t any better than her deadbeat dad were right. 

It’s all going pretty good, all things considered. Tim’s a reassuring voice in her ear, guiding her to where she needs to be, like Oracle but more excited (it is painfully obvious that Tim is not a professional viglante wrangler like Oracle, but that's okay because she's pretty psyched too). She puts her epic parkour skills to good use, does her fully-trained vigilante thing and avoids all the cameras and security. She’s like a dancer, floating across the floor, and she’s so  _ so  _ glad she did gymnastics as a kid because it’s come in handy a  _ lot.  _ Tim does his computer hack-y thing and she helps when he tells her to and then the alarms are disabled so she lifts the lid and the gold is right there and it’s beautiful and-

There’s a hand on her shoulder.

She hears Tim’s voice in her ear, urgent and questioning. She ignores it. All she can see is the dark figure before her with a finger to her lips. Steph’s heart is trying to break out of her chest and there is no more air in her lungs, but then she sees those little cat ears, the goggles on the figure’s face that glint in the light from the open window.

“Catwoman?” she hisses, and Catwoman smiles a Cheshire-cat grin and winks.

Catwoman lets Steph put the gold in her swag bag without asking questions. Catwoman watches as Steph grapples her way up to the roof and follows behind her. Catwoman doesn’t intervene until they’re standing on the roof of the building opposite the museum and Tim’s stopped screeching in her ear. Thanks, Tim, not like she needed to concentrate or anything. They sit.

“Never thought I’d see you turn to a life of crime, Spoiler,” she says and Steph freezes.

“How did you–” 

Catwoman chuckles. It’s a low sound, melodic and smooth.

“I’ve watched all the birds and bats this city has to offer. I’d know you anywhere, kitten.” Well, okay, that makes sense. “So?” she asks and Steph pats the bag at her side.

“It needs to go back home,” she says, by way of explanation. It’s the kind of half answer that’s normal for their sort of people. Catwoman’ll get it, she’s sure.

“And you?” she asks, “what’s Catwoman got her eye on?” 

“Oh it’s not for me. A whole load of Namibian orphans are going to be richer than their wildest dreams soon.” A diamond then, probably a big one. It’s the one thing she’s always appreciated about Catwoman: she always has a good reason, a good cause, that motivates her crime. It’s why even though she’s a villain, she occasionally makes an amazing ally, if you can win her over. She thinks Tim wants to try, from what little intelligible words make it through their comm link.

“My friend’s freaking out,” she offers and oh  _ now  _ Tim shuts up. “I think he wants to talk to you.” She hands over her comm.

Perhaps it’s mean of her, to throw Tim in at the deep end like that, but consider this: Steph just had the fright of her life and Tim was just fangirling in her ear while she was  _ trying  _ to have a  _ conversation _ , Tim, Jesus Christ on a cracker, learn how to be quiet when the adults are talking. Basically, she doesn’t care. Tim can flounder and she will sit back and laugh her butt off. 

She can only hear half of the conversation, but Catwoman honestly sounds softer and kinder than she’s heard her since, well, ever. It’s the kind of voice they use with scared civilians – soothing and gentle – but Tim isn’t a civilian, not really. He got dragged into this when his parents brought home stolen goods, when Steph told him her secret, so while he might not be a vigilante per se, he’s definitely not naïve. He’s definitely not a scared civilian. And Steph can pinpoint the exact point when Catwoman realises this.

“How do you know that name?” Her voice is suddenly sharper, colder. It’s the closest Steph’s ever heard to fear in her because Catwoman is never afraid. On edge, sure; overwhelmed, definitely, but never afraid. What the hell did Tim say to her?

“And how old are you, kitten?” Still wary, still uncertain. She wonders if Tim’ll lie about his age. That’s a normal thing for teenagers to do, she knows. Steph’s done it a few times, at the store or when she’s on patrol and needs to get into somewhere that doesn’t admit minors. 

“That was a long time ago, I’m surprised you remember,” says Catwoman, and the warmth is back in her voice. Maybe it’s just because Tim is charming; maybe they actually know each other. That’s the impression she’s getting from the one-sided conversation anyway. Imagine, if he could actually win her over. Training from  _ Catwoman.  _ Wow. Steph can’t help but imagine it, and it seems like a dream. She stops paying attention. The Catwoman in her head is much more engaging. This Catwoman shows her how to do all the awesome tricks Babs can’t or won’t teach her. This Catwoman runs across the roofs next to her and laughs with her, instead of just staying a voice in her ear, serious and unrelenting. 

She tunes back in when Catwoman leans forward and lifts her goggles.

“Oooh, now we’re talking, Mr Drake. Tell me more about this scheme of yours.”

  
  


Half-listening to Tim and Catwoman’s negotiations, Steph finally allows herself to calm, and the adrenaline to leave her system. Sweat has dried on her skin; it feels gross and cold, even though it’s still a warm night. She wraps her arms around herself and moves just enough to keep her blood pumping. Spoiler has been active long enough now to know that you don’t stop moving until the job is done and, yeah, it takes more energy, but letting yourself cool down is a death sentence in the Gotham nights. Criminals don’t wait for your body to warm itself up again after a break. So, Steph moves and keeps moving even though everything is fine and Catwoman is here to make sure it stays that way.

When their conversation trails off, she retrieves her comm unit from Catwoman’s hand and tells Tim “I’m coming back to yours.” They planned this before: Tim’s place is better to hide things you don’t want found, mainly because Tim is the only one who lives there currently. It’s not even the first place they’d be suspicious of, really. Why would this guy suspect his own business partners who  _ weren’t even in the country?  _ Meanwhile, Steph lives with her mom who, while not the cleanest or the most...present, is certainly aware enough to spot actual gold and jewels. See? They can be logical. They can be smart... sometimes. It's not like they _need_ an adult; it's just nice to have another set of eyes and ears. Her bag is heavy on her shoulder, but she stands tall anyway, and waves to Catwoman as she backs up towards the edge of the roof.  


She scrambles down to ground level and starts to walk (not run. Running is like asking to get caught). Catwoman doesn’t follow her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone figures out how to juggle postgrad applications, uni reading, dissertation, and 3 ongoing fics at once, please let me know. I require your expertise.  
> Thanks everyone for your comments!! They make my day and I love reading them so much.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Catwoman!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotta post this before our internet dies again because that's how my life's going today.  
> Anyway, this is the chapter you've been waiting (far too long) for. Sorry about the wait, I am terrible at time management and last week I somehow did not get a break between 10am and 4pm on monday because uni is just like that sometimes.

Tim knows Selina Kyle. He doesn’t think she knows him, or at least, she doesn’t remember. They’ve only met once, a long time ago, but it was enough to leave an impression. Enough to fill in a couple more blanks in Tim’s ‘who’s who’ of the Gotham vigilante scene.

In hindsight, Tim probably should have known something was up when Catwoman broke into his house. He was younger, then, stupider, but even the dumb kids in kindergarten knew that Catwoman only stole from people who deserved it. Tim made sure none of  _ his _ friends had ever been stolen from; he had a list of questions to assess who he should be friends with and number two on the list was ‘has Catwoman ever stolen anything from you or your family?’ (it was right underneath ‘have you ever seen Batman?’ because Tim had always had his priorities straight, and Catwoman was epic but Batman was _Batman_ ). So, yes, in hindsight, he probably should have known. But young-Tim was mostly just in awe of the lady in the hall outside his room and didn’t have a single thought in his head other than ‘she’s so cool’. 

Catwoman probably hadn’t been expecting to get caught, let alone by some sleepy kid wandering around in the dark. Tim had only been going downstairs for a glass of water. He certainly hadn’t been expecting to see Catwoman. Despite her surprise, she was all business and so composed as she crouched to Tim’s level and said in a voice as smooth as silk “are your parents home, kitten?”

Young-Tim had shaken his head. He hadn’t thought to lie, hadn’t thought to protect his parents’ treasures. Young-Tim, sleepy-Tim, didn’t know how to lie. Catwoman is good at lies: good at recognising them and good at telling them. She knew, back then, that Tim was telling the truth. She asked what he was up to and Tim, still sleep-fuddled and honest, told her he wanted a glass of water. 

Sometimes Tim wonders what would happen if that meeting happened now, if he would still be loose-lipped and honest. Because, Young-Tim didn't know how to lie, but the Tim of today does. The Tim of today lies as easily as breathing, when he has to.

Catwoman is kind, especially to children, so she took Tim by his tiny hand and let him lead her to the kitchen. She watched him hop up onto the counter and reach for a mug and then got it for him when he wobbled. She filled it with the icy cold fridge water instead of the tepid tap water that was just barely drinkable in the up-market suburbs. And when Tim had his drink, she helped him back up the stairs to his room, even though he was nine and practically a grown-up and didn’t need the help. 

When he was back in his room, she smoothed his Batman and Robin bedspread and smiled at him warmly. Tim decided he liked Catwoman. She wasn’t a villain, whatever the news said, because no villain would smile like that. He’d seen the Joker’s smile, Ivy’s smirk, Penguin’s pointed grin, and Catwoman was nothing like that. She smiled like he was more important than the things she was here to steal. So when Catwoman asked where his parents had left their Egyptian figurines, he told her.

“They’re in the study, Miss Catwoman, the one with all the clocks and the creepy painting.”

“Thank you, kitten. You’re about to make a lot of people very happy and I bet you won’t even remember in the morning. Now I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” she whispered, and her voice was all Gotham: low and buzzing and warm. “My name’s Selina.”

* * *

There are many Selinas in Gotham, but only one who could be Catwoman. 

Tim keeps the secret of Selina Kyle close to his heart, just as close as Batman and Robin and Nightwing. He has no photos to keep in a shoebox under his bed, and does not dare write it down, but he knows. He knows who Catwoman is. But he doesn’t tell, doesn’t even hint, because Tim Drake has been keeping secrets since he was eight years old and watched Robin perform a flip that belonged to Dick Grayson. Even when his parents came home after their trip to find their Egyptian artefacts stolen, Tim denied knowing anything. The safety of others always,  _ always,  _ comes before his own. 

And now, six years later, Catwoman is speaking down an earpiece he gave to Steph and she’s treating him just like she did back then. Except Tim’s older now, wiser, a better liar, and he knows how to get people to turn away. Adults will not help this situation, even if Catwoman is exactly the kind of person, out of all of them, that he thinks would try, and so he has to get her away.

“This is not something you want to get involved with, Selina,” he tells her and hears her breath catch.

“How do you know that name?” So, she has forgotten. Good. Tim wonders how many lonely children Selina Kyle gives her name to, that she forgot she gave it to him. It’s been a long time, sure, but it’s also pretty memorable, telling some random kid your secret identity. He assumes it must be anyway. If  _ he  _ was a criminal/anti-hero/vigilante, he certainly wouldn’t be giving his name out to strangers and forgetting it, although maybe she feels secure in knowing Selina Kyle has no attachments to hurt, no family to target, no life to ruin. Except Bruce Wayne, and Tim knows _all_ about Bruce Wayne and how easily he could hold his own. Tim knows. He googled her. He’s not dumb; he knows she only told him because he was a kid and she has something of a soft-spot for children. Catwoman might pretend to be a sneak thief, as hard and cold as the diamonds she steals, but in reality she’s more like amber: soft and easy to crack. Tim cracked her at nine years old and it wasn’t the first time or the last, apparently. 

But she asks how he knows and because she sounds scared, and because Tim also has a heart like amber, he tells her everything. He tells her about that night, so long ago, tells her about his parents - though he thinks she already knows - and about the plan they've made, the goal they strive for. She has questions, of course, concerns, but Tim is good at allaying those. He tells her what she wants to hear, a mix of truth and fiction that's close enough, but not real. The truth is dangerous, but this lie only endangers the liar, and the safety of others always comes before his own. Catwoman is a loose cannon, but she's maneuverable, and if she'll take Tim's instructions then she could be a valuable asset to the team. Even better, she could be a friend. _Friends with Catwoman._ He wonders what young-Tim would say to that.  


And then there were three. They’re the three musketeers, the three amigos, the golden trio, something else that comes in threes. They have Selina Kyle on their side. They can do anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like the chapter!!   
> Any feedback is much appreciated (as in, I read all your comments and squeal internally because I love you all) and I'm gonna try and be better about replying promptly because having more than 5 comments in my inbox is terrifying wow I do not want to do that again.  
> Have an amazing day/week/life. Love you all!!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! I'm back!!

Steph arrives back at Tim’s place panting for breath and with a stitch in her side. She’d broken her promise not to run, against her better judgement, the moment she got off the bus and legged it all the way back to those massive iron gates, crunched her way up the driveway and thumped herself against the door loud enough that Tim knew to let her in. She’s absolutely shattered, but she still needs to get home and cram in a few hours of sleep before school, and she is  _ not  _ looking forward to the trip home on the late night buses. There’s sweat drying in her hairline and the creases of her skin and it feels disgusting. She can’t wait to have a shower and get in her comfy pyjamas. It’s no different to a night out as Spoiler, if she's being honest, except Spoiler has a state of the art suit that’s designed to keep her cool as a cucumber and also this is meant to be her night off. Vigilante-ing seven days a week was the dream when she first started out, but now she really just wants to rest. That’s what days off are for. Except she doesn’t get one now.

This is what she gets for being a nice, kind-hearted, friend to a struggling boy: sleep deprivation, sweat, and sore muscles.

Tim takes the bag from her and doesn’t even check to make sure she got the right thing, just shoves it straight in a lockbox which goes in a hole he’s dug into the bowels of his mattress. Part of her is impressed by his foresight. Part of her is a bit pissed that he isn’t even going to check her work. Although maybe she should be happy that he trusts her that much. If _she_ were the mastermind behind a heist like this, she'd at least check that the goods she received are the ones she asked for, but who is she to judge. She only does all the heavy lifting, and the dangerous work, and the bits most likely to get them on the GCPD's radar. When he’s done putting the mattress back, he looks her up and down and tells her to take a shower. Rude. She can't smell that much, surely? But a shower does sound nice, and he _is_ offering so...  


Who is she to say no?

He gives her a towel that’s so incredibly fluffy she wants to wrap herself up in a towel cocoon and never leave, and some yoga pants that...oops, they’re hers. She must have left them last time. Well at least she doesn’t have to get back in the sweaty suit after. That would just ruin all the good of the shower, and sweaty suits are _the worst_ to try and change into: if they're still wet, they stick in all the wrong places and are the horrible, slimy kind of cold and damp; if they're dry, they turn kind of crunchy and rub and are just generally unpleasant. It's a good job she left clothes here, then, all things considered.

She tries to be quick but the hot water feels so good on her aching muscles and the soap smells amazing and then it’s been almost an hour. When she gets back to Tim’s room, he smiles and asks if she’d rather go home or stay the night and she barely pauses for a second before leaping at the chance to  _ not _ make the long trip all the way home. Her mother would kill her if she knew. Stephanie Brown has always been told not to stay the night at boys' houses, especially without parental approval. What her mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her. And Crystal Brown is not lucid enough to know that her daughter isn’t home at the moment. 

She stays at Tim’s house.

  
  


The next day, she goes to school as if it’s totally normal to be coming from the complete opposite direction. They stop for breakfast on the way, and chug caffeinated drinks as they walk. Tim’s school is weirdly close to hers, though it is much fancier - a prep school kind of thing - so they walk most of the way together.

In her stress about the heist, she’d forgotten that it was the last week of the semester. There was no homework that she’d neglected, no tests, just lazing around with classmates and teachers with equal levels of apathy and anticipation. Everyone is dying for summer vacation. She’ll be a junior next year, just two more years until graduation, and college, and freedom. She can’t decide if she’s excited or terrified. Where did all the time go?

She goes home after, texts Tim, sticks some crap on the TV. And what do you know? Her mom’s actually doing okay today. She asks about school, makes her dinner. Steph knows she shouldn’t be surprised by her mom acting like an actual mom. She shouldn’t be so weirded out by a home cooked meal or casual conversation. But it doesn’t change the fact that this is unusual for them. Normally, Steph fends for herself, makes her own food, lives her own life, and tries to ignore her mom spiralling in the same apartment. Days like this are rare. She treasures them, remembers each and every one with crystal clarity, because who knows when the next one will be. Her mom only sometimes is well enough to go to her shitty job at the corner store  _ and  _ look presentable, and even when she is, she isn’t aware enough to bother asking how they’re affording to survive. Every time her mom spends half her paycheck on the drugs she needs to live a little longer, Steph thanks whatever being is out there for Babs funneling their rent payments. 

The only downside of her mom being pretty chipper tonight is how hard it makes sneaking out to be Spoiler. Steph has to wait until well after dark before she can slip out of bed and out to the clocktower without getting caught and Babs hates lateness. She also hates that the museum got broken into - twice, if you include Selina - and seems to hate Steph’s nonchalance about the whole thing even more. She goes to the museum to look for clues, finds none (thanks Tim), and the only thing she has to do now is not incriminate herself. Which is harder than it sounds when Babs is on the case, but she manages it. She still isn’t quite sure how.

  
  


The next time Tim messages her, he tells her to come over after school. He has a plan. This is a good thing. They hadn’t really decided on what to do about stage 2 when they went ahead with stage 1. Tim doesn’t meet her at the gate this time, doesn’t walk her back to his, just trusts her to make her own way there. In his defence, Steph has a pretty good sense of direction, and a very good memory. Also there are, like, 4 houses on Tim’s street because their gardens are all so huge. Tim does meet her at his gate, just to make her life easier, and hands her a blueberry muffin. It’s a good muffin, sweet and sharp and fluffy, and obviously homemade. The housekeeper made it, apparently, which makes sense because Tim can’t bake. While she munches on her muffin in the living room, Tim dashes upstairs to get his laptop. He comes back with skyscanner open, and a red-eye flight to Addis Ababa selected. 

“I can’t book the flight with my card, it’ll get flagged by my parents immediately, but that’s the one you should take. I’ll send you a round sum that’ll cover it.” Steph purses her lips. It’s a long flight, with two layovers, and it’s expensive.

“I mean, if you’re sure. I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to mom, or anyone else, but…” she trails off. It wasn’t something either of them had really thought about. 

“This will work, Steph,” Tim tells her. “I believe in you. And besides, it’s not like I can go myself. You’re sneakier than me; you can just slip in and out undetected. I’ll set everything up for you, with a full itinerary, and you can just treat it like a holiday, right? Go see the sights and stuff.”

Hmm. A free holiday in Africa. That sounds pretty cool.

She grabs Tim’s laptop from him and books the flight. 

  
  
Steph can’t say she’s ‘always wanted to travel the world’, because that would be lying. Sure, she’s jealous of the people at school who brag about their awesome holidays in exotic parts of the world, but Gotham’s home, and there are plenty of people just like her who have also never left. The people who go on exciting holidays are few and far between in her end of Gotham. There is a part of her, though, that wants to rise above her origins, to be something better, something more than just a girl from the poor end of America’s most crime-ridden city. She’s never left the state, let alone the country. But, while Steph might not have ever dreamed of backpacking across the world, she sure does have a thirst for adventure. This scenario is no different. Now she has the opportunity, she just wants to  _ go.  _ The time between now and her flight seems to last forever instead of a matter of days, even though she keeps busy. She frets over packing, rambles a lot of lies at her mom about what she’s going to do there,  _ doesn’t  _ ramble a lot of lies at Oracle about what she’s going to do there because Oracle absolutely already knows somehow (she's pretty sure Babs' frustration about the museum case was an act to see if Steph would slip up and implicate herself. She seems oddly proud of her, after), reads textbooks even though she doesn’t have to, repacks twice, and then finally,  _ finally,  _ the day arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is the situation: in probably about a month (?) I will be starting a new job. It is 37 hours a week. I will also be studying 'full time' which means I will be simultaneously working on assignments for my dystopian lit module and working on my dissertation. Plus I'm still mean to be tutoring once a week as a volunteer. tldr; I will have approximately 0 time for anything fun like writing. I am going to try my absolute best to keep updating, and the new job is only temporary, but if I go radio silent for a while, that is why.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy the chapter!!

**Author's Note:**

> So that's chapter 1! There are at least 7 chapters written and in editing stages with more to come after that (definitely the longest fic I've written to date I think) so you've got lots to look forward to!  
> The dig site in Peru that is mentioned is an actual archaeological site where they did actually find a tonne of jewellry. So that's pretty cool.  
> There's so much art for this already and I'll link it up here:  
> \- A title card and playlist from @butterflyslinky  
> \- A lovely scene from @fierovends  
> With more to come.  
> Let me know what you think! You can also find me on tumblr @storm-leviosa-fanfics


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